The Tortured Poets Department ( Juliet's Version )

A forbidden Letter

A/N: Exactly what it sounds like.

Hey.

It's me. 

I just wanted to start off by saying that... hell, I don't even know what to say. I swallowed up all my words the day you left, and I'm just staring at an empty seat on the table - the seat you used to sit on. 

"Life breaks you until you start fighting back" is what you used to say. I remember it all, every single word, that stupid fucking way you declared it. "And when you push through all the troubles, there's a moment of silence where you know you've done the right thing. You keep fighting the loudness until you're stuck in silence, and then, maybe just then, you can call yourself a hero." 

I still remember the fucking curve of your lips, the gleam in your eyes as you said whatever poetic shit it was that you said. It's beyond me how you found such beauty in the ugliest thing known to mankind. War. Well, maybe that's a lie. Neglect my bitter soul, pal. Got so fucking sick of you kicking up a fuss and whining over scattered crumbs that I just tuned out the whole world at that point. I'm sorry if I seemed silent. I promise you I'm anything but. 

God above, I miss your voice. That deep, annoying, low little menace that helped me go to sleep every night you knew I saw what I didn't wanna see. Got shell-shocked. Got tired. Then again, whenever you flew off the handle, I strapped you back in and fought the urge to snap your stupid mouth shut forever. Always beating your gums, aren't you? Keep on the straight and narrow for me. I'm begging on my knees. I can't lose you again.

One day, you're going to get blown up because you're too fucking heroic for your own good, and because that cock pit fog really doesn't make it better, does it? And it'll all be because you want to prove a fucking point, jump into a losing game, ignoring rain or shine or whatever the hell God's will was to keep your dumbass alive. Not that I want you to become a mit flopper. Just want you to stay alive. I may be selfish, and Lord have I heard that before, but between the world and you, my hands are reaching for yours.

It's been weeks - no, months - since I've seen your sensible face, which I think we all know is just a fucking ruse, in all ways that matter. Can't forget you for the life of me, darling.

But I ain't calling the kettle black, and you're not the only idiot here. I've got my own story to tell, whether you hear it or not. The world was all ka-boom and rat-a-tat, each sound a lead bee buzzing past my ear.  I was hunkered down in a foxhole, clutching my old M1 Garand like a lifeline.  She was a stubborn old dame, just like me. The brass had tried to hand me a new piece more times than I could count, but I always turned 'em down. This rifle and I, we'd been through the thick of it together. I couldn't let go of her, because that little trigger was the same little wisp you drew like my hair. I couldn't let go of that. The air was thick with the stench of cordite and fear. The Krauts were laying eggs like a henhouse on fire,  the ground shaking with each impact. I knew I had to get back in the scrap, but my rifle... she jammed.

 I cussed under my breath, yanking at the bolt, but it was stuck tighter than a drum. Suddenly, a shell landed close by, the shockwave tossing me like a ragdoll.  My ears were ringing like the Liberty Bell, my eyes stung like motherfucking hell. Jesus fuck. 

I could taste the coppery tang of blood in my mouth, feel the hot sting of shrapnel in my side. I was hit, maybe on my last legs. But I wasn't yellow. I still got some faith in me. I held onto my rifle, praying not for my life, but for moxie. Moxie to keep going, to keep scrapping. But there's something; I didn't want to kick the bucket 'fore I saw you. And then, like manna from heaven, my rifle clicked. The jam was cleared. I was back in the game. And ain't that a fucking blessing?

I crawled out of the foxhole, every move a symphony of agony. I took aim, my mitts steady despite the pain. I let loose, each shot a two-finger salute to the fucking Jerries. I was wounded, sure. I was hurting, you bet. But I was still kicking. And as long as I was still goddamn kicking, I would fight. For my country, for my faith, for my fallen brothers.

And so, I fought. With every ounce of moxie I had, with every beat of my ticker, with every ragged breath. I fought, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. For you. All for you. Because I was a soldier. And soldiers... we don't quit. Not ever. Not even when our rifles jam. Not even when we're knocking on heaven's door. We fight. And we keep on fighting.